


Why Shouldn't I Smirk?

by Anonymous



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22709050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Wrathion knows what a proper consort should be, and knows that he is nothing like them.
Relationships: Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn
Comments: 12
Kudos: 180
Collections: Anonymous





	Why Shouldn't I Smirk?

Wrathion knows what a royal consort is supposed to be.

They’re supposed to be women - lovely and ethereal queens with beauty that would make Azshara herself seethe in envy. They’re to be doe-eyed as if in a state of permanent wonder, with long, silky hair that spills and flows over the satin sheets their kings greedily press them against. A proper consort has a laugh lighter than air and kindness that shines against every cruelty that Azeroth hurls at their feet. They are supposed to inspire their people, bear children for the royal line and show deference to their husbands in all matters with a smile, without ever begrudging them for it. They are remembered through wept tears by their kingdom at their passing and enshrined in beautiful graves that are kept immaculate through any storm that may weather the memorial gardens.

Wrathion knows this; he’s read it in dozens of books and seen it in paintings that hang in the Stormwind Keep, showing reverence for the lines of queens that hung on their husband’s arm and the memories of their smiles that are etched through each brushstroke on the canvas. He knows that Greymane hurls this information against him like a weapon, a damnation of himself and who Anduin could, should have at his side and warming his bed.

Anduin is what a proper king should be, Wrathion thinks. He may not have the fury of his father, or the legendary bearings of his namesake – but he fits the part. He is wise, patient; the naiveté of his youth is long gone, but his penchant for kindness has persisted through every cruelty and loss he’s suffered. He holds himself well in summits and battle, and when the sun hits him just right – he simply _shines_.

It’s long been the opinion of Anduin's court that a king of his stature is well overdue for a _proper_ womanly consort.

Wrathion is not womanly, and he is neither soft nor kind. He is sharp, from his touch to his tongue and his smile causes discomfort, all pointed teeth and a smirk that only grows when his presence is resented. His thighs are not round and plump but scarred and tough, his hips bony and never for bearing the High King’s young. He laughs darkly, not sweetly and dresses immodestly in glittering gold and jewels and simply radiates with the overbearing satisfaction that he _offends_ by _being_. His passing will be a sigh of relief to most, going by how many quietly seek to hasten it.

Wrathion knows what a proper consort should be, and knows that he is nothing like them.

It’s _delicious._

“You’re smirking.”

Wrathion rolls over onto his side, silken sheets flowing off his shoulders at the movement as he props himself up on one arm. The light of the evening is fast fading, and their bedroom’s tightly drawn curtains let very little of it in. In the faint glow, he can see Anduin is already sitting upright in bed, a fine comb between his fingers and smoothing out the hair Wrathion’s nimble fingers love to curl in. It’s always amusing how quickly his king works to bring himself back into a semi-presentable condition, even with the doors firmly locked and the smell of sweat and delectable exertion still leaving the air hot and pungent. Wrathion’s gaze dances over the bruises and marks he’d left up the swell of Anduin’s neck, enjoying the sight before they’ll be swiftly healed away for the sake of ill-gotten modesty. “I’m always smirking,” Wrathion replies, reaching out with his free hand to smooth over a fresh scratch on Anduin’s bare hip.

“You’re thinking,” Anduin counters; the comb is laid aside as he reaches for his hair tie. “You have that look.”

“And I’m always thinking,” Wrathion purrs back. The hand tracing Anduin’s hip trails downward to give the inside of his thigh a squeeze. “You like that about me.”

“Oh? You think I like you?” The moment Anduin’s hair is tied his hands reach for Wrathion’s own hips, pulling him over and up onto Anduin’s lap as the latter relaxes back against the headboard. Wrathion bites back an undignified noise at the sensation of being manhandled, their still-softening cocks rubbing lazily together at the movement. Anduin’s palms and body are so much broader now; they’re weathered and firm, and while his king will never be the imposing physical presence like his forebearers, he’s long lost the thinness that had plagued his days of mourning.

“Mm,” Wrathion grunts, rolling his hips and earning a chuckle from Anduin in response. “Yes. That’s what I’m thinking about. How you _like_ me.”

Anduin merely hums, thumbs rubbing small circles over the sharp jut of Wrathion’s hip bones. “I am, perhaps, slightly fond. At times.” Despite Wrathion’s teasing grind, Anduin’s eyes are starting to droop – and _that_ is unacceptable. They’ve barely begun, even if humans have rather pitiful stamina.

“You _chose_ me.” Wrathion reaches one hand back to gently fondle Anduin’s softened cock as he presses the other palm to Anduin’s chest, pushing him further down into the pillows and watching through narrowed eyes and a wicked smile. “Of all you could have had, _I_ am the one who consistently finds myself soaked and tangled in your sheets or pressed down and mounted between your thighs, _High King_.”

Anduin is now watching him carefully, gaze intense but lidded as his thumbs falter in their ministrations.

“Greymane pranced _so many_ lovely ladies in front of you.” Wrathion’s leaning in now, brushing his nose against the cusp of Anduin’s ear. His king is lying completely still, breathing unaltered but voicing nothing as Wrathion presses a kiss against the underside of his throat. “They were all eager to take your hand, smile their pretty little smiles and charm your kingdom,” Wrathion continues, pulling away to gaze in satisfaction. “They were women of good breeding, Anduin, and oh _so_ eager to be **_bred_ **by you.”

“Your point?” Anduin grunts out, as if trying to divert from the twitch of interest his dick had given beneath Wrathion.

“They’ve stopped coming.”

Anduin’s hooded gaze of interest is broken slightly by an amused smile. “You frightened most of them straight out of the castle.”

“You didn’t _want_ them,” Wrathion counters, rocking his hips with purpose and grinning as Anduin reflexively grips his hips that much harder. “You wanted **_me_**.”

Anduin hums lowly, canting his own hips up to rub against Wrathion’s own movements. “And you’re proud of that,” he drawls.

“I had everything against me,” Wrathion breathes back, hand finally trailing upwards from Anduin’s chest to tangle in his freshly-combed hair. “My lineage. My reputation. My… mannerisms.”

“Bastardous tendencies,” Anduin supplies helpfully, before being cut off in a delicious little gasp as Wrathion’s other hand gives his cock a pointedly firm stroke.

“Everything the darling cub of Stormwind should despise, and yet he still chose me. All the loathing and hatred of your people, yet I still snatched you away,” Wrathion’s grin is wicked as he leans in to kiss Anduin, murmuring against his lips: “Why shouldn’t I smirk?”

The press of Anduin’s lips against his own in the kiss is surprisingly soft and gentle; deceptively so Wrathion realizes a second later as firm hands snap up to grasp his shoulders before he’s swiftly flipped and pinned on his belly beneath Anduin’s weight. Whatever indignant, startled squawk Wrathion had uttered was now muffled by the sheets and swiftly transforming into a throaty groan as Anduin folds over to cover him completely. Anduin’s cock is hot and firm against him, positioned sweetly between Wrathion’s cleft and rubbing tantalizingly at his entrance - but not breaching. Not yet.

“You seem to delight,” Anduin breathes, voice hot and heavy against Wrathion’s ear. “In other people _despising_ you. Do you know how many assassination attempts Shaw has fended off against you?”

“Do _you_ know how many my Blackta-” Wrathion’s cut off with his own moan as Anduin snaps his hips forward; Wrathion has to swiftly bury his face against the mattress to muffle his cry.

“Greymane all but forbade me, as you very well know.” Anduin’s pace is punishingly slow, a polar opposite to the usual frenzied pace their passions took them. “I had to sit through so many lectures. About how a king should be seen. What company he should keep.”

Wrathion groans, rocking his hips backwards to seek deeper friction and hissing as Anduin’s movements still to deny him it. He’s being held in place, adamantly dominated as Anduin forces him to focus on the feeling of being filled.

“I didn’t want his daughter, as lovely a person as Tess is. I didn’t want any of the sea of perfectly pleasant women he paraded around the keep, and I loathed to disappoint them over and over – but I did.”

“Come _on_ ,” Wrathion snaps, trying to fuck backwards and baring his teeth as Anduin’s arms wrap around him, pulling his ass upwards as Anduin’s weight presses Wrathion’s upper back down. He can’t move like this and Anduin is a hot brand inside him, a hot brand that needs to start moving and fucking him properly.

“You like it,” Anduin murmurs in reply. “Thinking you beat them. That you won, and they lost, and now you’ve got the greatest prize a noblewoman could want as your lover. You think all the ways you aren’t like them were hindrances you overcame.”

“Am I wrong?” Wrathion pants back, groaning in appreciation as Anduin finally rolls his hips forward.

“Of course. You usually are, when it comes to things like this.” Anduin’s tone is revoltingly amused as he starts moving again, pace mercifully quickened as he thrusts up into that perfect little spot that silences the annoyed quip rising in Wrathion’s throat and turns it into a pretty little gasp. “You seem to think that I chose you _despite_ all the ways you weren’t a ‘perfect consort’ instead of **_because_** of them.”

Wrathion grins into the sheets, eyes scrunching up as Anduin juts his hips just perfectly inside him. “Wanted… to disappoint everyone… that badly?”

“No,” Anduin counters easily. It’s infuriating how composed he sounds, compared to Wrathion coming undone beneath him. “It’s not rebellion for rebellion’s sake. I wanted someone who would challenge me. Someone intelligent, who would make me question myself for the better instead of simply falling into line.” Anduin’s lessening his hold slightly, a hand reaching up to brush away Wrathion’s hair from the back of his neck and pressing a gentle kiss there instead. “Someone I could truly fall for.”

Wrathion can merely croak in reply; the words clench at his heart in a way that’s somehow more punishing than each snap of Anduin’s hips.

“I wanted you from the moment I met you,” Anduin whispers into Wrathion’s ear, and groaning in appreciation at the clench he receives in reply. “I wanted you since before I knew how to _want_ , like this. You think me a prize only because - for all your bluster and false ego - you do not see how precious _you_ truly are. _You_ are a gem that _I_ have won, because you,” Anduin breathes, licking gently at the nape of Wrathion’s neck. “Chose.” Wrathion tenses, crying out sharply as he feels Anduin’s teeth sink into his skin.

“Me.”

\----

“I did _not_ black out.”

Anduin’s noncommittal hum is somehow more annoying than an outright denial. Wrathion refuses to look at him, his own arm flung over his face as he lays there and breathes in the pile of their absolutely ruined sheets. The inside of his thighs are tacky with cooling cum, and the feeling of stickiness is becoming overwhelming. The room absolutely reeks of sex and sweat and somehow Wrathion swears he can _taste_ Anduin’s revolting self-satisfaction on the air around him.

“You were too heavy,” Wrathion snaps. “I was being crushed beneath you, that’s all.”

“Of course. Makes perfect sense.”

The glib reply finally gets Wrathion to lift his arm to shoot the man an irritated glare. “You were being unfair,” he hisses.

“I’m sorry, did I shatter the mighty dragon’s illusion of his kingly conquest?” Anduin reaches out to tweak Wrathion’s nose, pulling back his fingers with a practiced jerk as Wrathion’s teeth snap in the air where they’d been. “I suppose the truth does hurt – or at least, overwhelms.”

“Oh, please. You didn’t want me,” Wrathion mutters back. He’s turning over on his side, putting his back to the man to avoid any accidental eye contact. “Not at first.”

“I did.” Anduin’s invading the space Wrathion had put between them with annoying ease, kissing him between the shoulder blades. “Not in the manner of bedding you, or anyone else for that matter. But I still wanted you.”

“I annoyed you.”

“You still annoy me,” Anduin replies cheerfully.

“I-” Wrathion rolls back over, shooting Anduin a glare before he can sneak any more kisses onto Wrathion’s turned back. “I disgusted you. We fought constantly. There was some mutual camaraderie of course, but you-”

“Wanted you. So badly.” Anduin doesn’t make any moves to kiss him; he’s merely watching Wrathion now, gaze softened. “I was fascinated by you. You were impossible and amazing, and yes, you were _very_ annoying. But every day I spent at that tavern, I was excited to spend time with someone clever and cunning, who didn’t coddle me or expect me to be anything but myself and _challenged_ me for it. I was excited to be with _you_.”

Wrathion immediately rolls back over, quickly putting his back to Anduin and burying his face in a pillow where vulnerable expressions cannot be seen by gentle, searching gazes. “You are a fool,” Wrathion hisses, failing to disguise the waver in his voice. “Go to sleep.”

Anduin, predictably, leans over to press one final kiss against Wrathion’s neck. He predictably murmurs: “Good night, Wrathion,” in that one low tone that always leaves goosebumps in its wake, and predictably rolls over onto his side to give Wrathion some space as they settle in to sleep. He will also, equally predictably, smell revolting in the morning because neither one of them have risen to bathe and will probably wake up half-stuck to the sheets.

Even if Wrathion tried to get to the bathroom right now, he thinks his legs might give out in this moment.

“You know,” Anduin murmurs sleepily, because of course he cannot let it _lie_ , of course he has one last thing to get in when Wrathion’s heart feels close to bursting from its chest. “You shouldn’t compare yourself to those women, anyway. A royal consort only needs to be one thing, and you’re already that.”

“Oh?” Wrathion croaks. “And what’s that?”

Even with his back turned, Wrathion can all but see Anduin smile sleepily in the dark.

“You’re loved.”


End file.
